


Belief can never get rid of grief

by mendystar1



Category: BBC Sherlock, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blog entries, Gen, John Watson's Blog, Reichenbach Falls, post the reichenbach falls
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-16
Updated: 2013-11-16
Packaged: 2018-01-01 18:40:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1047274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mendystar1/pseuds/mendystar1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the fall John tries to find the right words to express what he's feeling.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Belief can never get rid of grief

_«— processing -»_

_«— private posts saved on johnwatsonblog.co.uk —»_

_Sometimes I wonder what I look like through your eyes. What did you deduct about me? Everyday. As we sat in the flat? Whenever you played that violin of yours and I closed my eyes at the lovely sound._

_Were you deducting about me?_

_About my day?_

_Of course you were. You always do. You can never turn it off._

_"I can’t turn if off and on like a tap John, it doesn’t work like that."_

_I know, but why?_

_—-_

_The flat is quiet without you. I can’t stand it._

_—-_

_Sometimes I wonder. You are so kind. Even the first day we met and you brought me to the flat. The place we called home. I called home. Without realizing it._

_You heard me complain about my leg and you came running up those stairs (thank god you did) and you let me into your world. Your dangerous world. And you trusted me. As I did you._

_All you needed was a glance and all I needed was a simple gesture. Of someone not treating me like I was broken. Like I’m a piece of glass that will shatter at the smallest touch. A bomb waiting to explode at any moment._

_—-_

_All those things you said, I don’t believe in them. I’ll never believe them._

_—-_

_I wish it was me that Moriarty targeted but of course I’m not interesting enough. Smart enough to be on your level. To enter the game. But I wanted to keep you safe. Out of sight. I guess I’m to blame. I wrote about you in my blog. I didn’t know it would become so popular. Actually. I did. You’re just so interesting. You fascinated me. You still fascinate me._

_—_

_Why wouldn’t you let me save you? Why did you have me see the remains? The broken and bruised. Why didn’t you let me help you? Why didn’t you tell me anything?_

—-

_Stop this._

_Please._

_Come home_

_——_

_That day, when I told you to stay out of the papers. You asked why I cared?_

_I think inside I knew. I knew how this would end. I knew what Moriarty would do. I just didn’t trust my instinct._

_And now you paid the price._

_——_

_WHY?_

_Please, just tell me why_

_I deserve to know this much, don’t I?_

_You dragged me there to see your de_

—-

He sat there staring at the bright-lit screen for what seemed like hours. Days. Months. It was too much. Even if he started writing this out of anger, begging for answers, yelling at the empty screen in front of him. He couldn’t bring himself to type down that word.

He never could.

He couldn’t even bring up his name.

He was pathetic, he knew it. Everyone knew. Tiptoeing around him like he was a bomb, waiting to go off.

Maybe he was a bomb, the way he snapped at Donovan, ready to snap her neck because it was her fault. Wasn’t it? She doubted him. She caused this to happen.

He let out the breath he didn’t know he was holding. No. It wasn’t her fault. Moriarty was smart. He was building this plan for months, years even. It wasn’t her fault. Moriarty covered his tracks well. Too well.

He couldn’t believe his best friend was dead, but he saw it. Right in front of his eyes. No. He can’t think about it, if he did, he could never stop.

He’s been trying to find the right words. The last words he will ever type on this retched blog of his. Words that honored his memory. Words that convinced the world and maybe him, if he’s out there, that John never stopped caring. Never stopped believing. He was at this for an hour, deleting post by post, putting it in his private folder. None of them felt right. None of them expressed what he wanted to say.

And so, he slowly typed out what he wanted to say. What he wanted to tell him during that phone call. Before he fell. Before all of this happened.

What he wanted to say.

_«— new post — >_

_You trusted me and let me into your dangerous, brilliant life. And I will trust you till the end of time._

_I believe in my friend._

_Always have._

_Always will._

_I wish you were still here_

_\- JWH_

«—  _blog post deleted_  —»

_«— new post — >_

_He was my best friend and I’ll always believe in him_


End file.
